


An Altus in Arlathan

by coldturkey



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Arlathan (Dragon Age), Artistic License, Dark Shit is Dark, Dorian's Righteous Indignation, Lyrium, M/M, Magic, Mysticism, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Dorian, Politics, Red Lyrium, Slow To Update, Spirits, Spirits Everywhere, The Fade, War, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21832888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldturkey/pseuds/coldturkey
Summary: Instead of being sent with the Herald into the future at Redcliffe, poor Dorian is sent into the past. Thedistantpast. He can't understand the language, everything is possessed, and his only ticket at getting back home is retrieving an amulet swallowed by a demon with teeth the size of his head.At least the library is decent.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Dorian Pavus, Fen'Harel/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 29
Kudos: 85





	1. Undignified Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> This work hasn't been beta'd, so if you catch any errors please let me know so I can fix them. I tried my best to clean it up but things always slip through. :)

Dorian tumbled to the ground with the green amulet clutched tightly in his fist. “…Herald?” He called out, climbing to his feet as reality swam back into focus. His call was met with silence and the distant rustle of leaves. Did that mean the Herald had survived? Had Dorian managed to push the Herald out of the way in time? It was only when the rustling grew louder that he took note of his surroundings, the state of his moustache, no doubt askew, as it registered that he was in a forest – and a formidable forest at that!

Bushes and trees of an impossible green surrounded him, and the surrounding air so light he felt all-but weightless were it not for the unusual sensation of heaviness in his feet. It smelled like fresh rain and tasted like flower blossoms. Wherever this was, it _certainly_ wasn’t Redcliffe. Dorian have only recently begun his miserable trudge through the backwater lands of nug farmers, dog lords, and cheese wheels, but he was confident that he had ~~seen~~ smelt more than enough of Ferelden to know it did _not_ smell like this. And even more peculiar, the veil was—.

Dorian stilled.

The veil was— _fasta vass_ , where was the veil?! He wasn’t quite sure how to label the emotions that flooded through him in that moment, the odd mix of excitement, trepidation, and confusion when he realized the familiar barrier between the world and the land of Dreams was simply **_gone_**. It couldn’t _just_ be _gone_! That was impossible!

However, before Dorian could give further considerations to the implications such an impossibility, sudden shouts and the thrashing of movement through dense foliage forced Dorian’s attention to more immediate concerns. The sudden ruckus hardly qualified as a warning, and it was quickly followed by several _Avvar_ breaking into the small clearing he’d found himself in at a full run. Eyes widening, Dorian flung himself out of the way with an embarrassing lack of decorum.

And right into something very large and very hairy.

Dorian had personally never been much for prayer, but in that precise moment he very much wanted to know what in the Maker’s name was going on! Then he saw the flared nostrils of the beast he’d collided with, narrowly avoiding an antler, before the veil—no, there was no veil—the _fabric of reality_ went suddenly heavy. The land itself had warped into a space that _commanded_ all within it to sleep.

It was here that instinct _should_ have kicked in. He was, after all, a Pavus—and a very talented one at that. _But there was no veil_. And he hesitated. Through his periphery Dorian saw other mounted figures breaking through the cover of trees near the Avvar, cutting off the fleeing barbarians’ escape, as the edges of his vision began to blur. By then it was too late to cast an effective counterspell and everything went black.

When Dorian regained consciousness, it was to heavy chains on his wrists and an uncomfortable weighted collar around his neck that tasted heavily of lyrium. Magic dampeners. He’d seen similar used on many of the elven slaves, specifically, in Tevinter and his stomach dropped. Surely this was some kind of misunderstanding.

Grimacing he moved cautiously into a sitting position, straightening his moustache as he tried to regain his bearings. After all, laying sprawled out face-first in the dirt was hardly dignified. And whatever was going on he was certain that he could get it sorted out. The group of Avvar that had stampeded past him were now clustered in an unconscious heap a short distance away, their limbs splayed and faces bloodied in a way that suggested they’d all collapsed under the force of the enchantment spell while still at a run.

Then there were his captors, who he had up until this point seen but not so much _looked_ at. It was then that his jaw dropped. Dorian had expected another barbarian tribe, or perhaps even some less savory slavers that were occasionally rumored to prey on more remote groups. He had not expected _elves_. An increasingly unsettling thought was beginning to gain hold in his mind, and with it the sense to close his mouth. He was determined not to gawp. Dorian did _not_ gawp.

There was half a dozen of them, their hair held back by elaborate braids and their faces adorned with the intricate branching tattoos both similar and completely different from the one the Herald of Andraste bore. They were mercurial. The ink almost looked… _alive_.

Dorian repressed a shudder as he continued to take in everything from the silver and gold banding in their hair to the intricately linked chain armors that moved much like the fine silks they overlaid. The few elves in animal skins weren’t wearing rough hides, but instead finely processed leathers that had been dyed and detailed. And magic clung to all of it like a second skin. If these elves were Dalish they were a very different kind of Dalish than the ones he’d seen.

He needed to get out of here.

Some of the Avvar were beginning to stir, which came as a boon. As far as Dorian was concerned anything that helped draw these strange elves’ increasingly unwanted attention away from him was a good thing. With the prospect of something to keep his captor’s occupied, Dorian immediately began testing the effectiveness of his anti-magic bindings. Even with the dampeners he could still feel the press of the fade around him – it was infused in everything. In everyone. That alone could make it more difficult to pick up on subtle fluctuations in the magical energies around him. If he was careful… perhaps he had a chance.

Were Dorian an average mage he suspected the presence of lyrium negation bracers would have been enough to dissuade him from even trying, but Dorian had always made it a point to be nothing but exceptional. And without the limitations placed upon magic by the veil, the possibilities were, well, completely untested.

Dorian carefully reached out to the Fade, tugging gently as he exerted his will against the effectiveness of the lyrium’s negation. It was like trying to reach out through a particularly thick area of the veil, but he _could_ reach out to it. He paused in his efforts, watching the others as inconspicuously as an impeccably dressed and well-groomed mage such as himself could for any signs that his ability to draw on the fade had been noticed. Without the veil to fold his spells within, Dorian’s efforts to conceal the magic was as greatly hindered. Still, initial prodding suggested the resistance he faced was similar to a moderate dose of magebane poisoning—a practical pastime in Tevinter dining. With the veil he doubted he’d have had a chance, but _without_ …

While still keeping an eye on the elves, Dorian began the slow process of using what little he could summon to further investigate the underlying magic of bracers and collar he’d been placed in. As distasteful as the thought of him in a slave collar was, he knew that many within the magisterium came with—yes, there they were: antitampering enchantments and warning runes.

He almost didn’t catch himself from huffing in frustration. The more he worked to dismantle the nature of their construction, the more elaborate he discovered the woven magic was. Not in an unnecessary sense—he didn’t believe it to be illusionary, but it was far more intricate than he’d expected.

Undoing magic like this without alerting the others would take time.

Resigned to the fact that the task would likely take several hours at best, he shifted his attention back to his surroundings. Two of the six elves were moving between the stirring Avvar, riffling through their furs and garments with slightly repulsed expressions. The one who seemed to be the leader was off to the side, watching the pair with a growing frown that transformed the her unusually pale and high cheek-boned face into an expression that was, quite frankly, terrifying. Combined with the pale blue eyes, lips, and _hair,_ and the blue-black of her tattoo that were a little _too_ reminiscent of blighted veins, he found himself forcefully reminded of an extremely bitchy and ice-encased corpse. Dorian wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or relieved that the others looked more conventional, considering who seemed to be in charge.

When the second round of searching still failed to yield results, the leader snapped at the pair in elven. Dorian didn’t have the foggiest idea what they were searching for, but it must have been important because the others uninvolved in the dispute were also beginning to look irritated. The shorter one of the pair, a man with red markings and brown braids ringed in copper and silver, who on the receiving end of the woman’s ire said something in response that was similarly terse, leading to a gradually escalating dispute that that continued for several minutes—all the way up until one of the Avvar groaned. In that time the strange melody of their words had transformed from a lilting rhythm to something harsher that reminded Dorian of a snake’s warning hiss.

The shorter elf and his superior’s attention shifted to the middle-aged man on the ground. The elf raised one of his hands, and the magical energies around it warped as a halberd of dark and polished steel materialized out of thin air. He pressed the edged end of the weapon into the Avvar’s throat with a guttural threat much more in line with the savagery Dorian had always heard attributed to the Dalish.

For a brief moment the Tevinter forgot all about foiling his alarmingly well-crafted bonds. The Avvar replied in a language Dorian had no more hope of understanding than the rapid elven being fired back. Then the fade surrounding the elf began to warp, creating a haze of magic before the elf’s markings flared. Dorian’s eyes widened in horror as the elf’s eyes went dark, occluded by wisps of dark smoke as he repeated an earlier phrase. His words no longer spoken with one voice, but two. _An abomination._ The metal blade pressed to the Avvar’s throat glowed red, and the acrid smell of burning flesh filled the air in tandem with the man’s scream.


	2. From Bad to Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian realizes he is not in Kansas anymore and that he's surrounded by--and at the mercy of--a gaggle of possessed elves. Hurray!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work hasn't been beta'd, so if you catch any errors please let me know so I can fix them. I tried my best to clean it up but things always slip through. :)
> 
> There's only 1 translation, which is available inline for those at a computer and in the end notes for those on their phones.

If any of the Avvar had still been asleep, they certainly weren’t now. The man— _demon_?—withdrew the glowing blade, leaving a gash of burned blood and melted flesh. Dorian was by no means innocent, but between the sight and smell he was precariously close to being sick. The abomination leaned closer to the man, the corners of his lips curling in a feral smile as he repeated the string of elven yet again.

The Avvar met the abomination’s eyes with a glare, his teeth clenched as he bit out a final sentence before spitting in the abomination’s face. From there Dorian expected the possessing demon to twist the body it inhabited into something unnatural—to contort into a monstrous shape that reflected its nature as it lost itself to rage—but instead the abomination looked _pleased_ as he raised the molten edge of his blade.

Dorian looked away when the weapon began its downswing, grimacing when the sickening crunch of bone was followed by screams instead of silence. It would appear that whatever had possessed the elf enjoyed a drawn out death.

Mouth dry and heart pounding, Dorian began working on the bracers and collar with renewed determination. It was increasingly apparent that wherever he’d landed—whenever he’d landed—did not follow the same rules. The surrounding elves looked neither upset nor alarmed by transpiring events, and the captive Avvars’ eyes were filled with fear and hate and anger, yes, but not surprise.

“ _Et in tenebris tot perpetui, non sum solus_.” Dorian whispered, half a prayer under his breath, when the scream finally choked into silence. If he could just adjust the enchantments a little further…

Necessity and a desire for self-preservation did not allow Dorian the luxury of ignoring his surroundings, and he took no pleasure at the sight of smoke rising from a half-melted and hacked open gut. Throughout the altercation the other Avvar had slowly inched away from the demonic elf, but whatever distance they had managed was ultimately negligible. From there the abomination wasted little time in stepping over the eviscerated and smoldering remains of his first victim to approach the next closest human—a middle aged woman with greying hair.

The older woman shook her head frantically, her fingers and heels digging into the earth in her panic to put distance between them. However, the other elf who had helped search the Avvar—a slender elf with dark red markings and black hair held back in a single braid—stepped in behind her and put a halt to her retreat. His skin fairer, but it with an ashen undertone that Dorian might have found strange were it not for the fact that, tattoo colors aside, his appearance was the most subdued aside from the elf attending to the halla-like creatures nearest Dorian. The ashen elf then made a remark to their leader, who laughed. _Laughed_. This time when the abomination spoke, Dorian caught a word he recognized: _Mythal_.

It did little to assuage Dorian’s increasing concern for his welfare.

If Dorian really had been sent through time, the direction he’d been sent could be extremely relevant to the time he had left behind. Had he gone forward… or back? The veil had existed for all of recorded history. It couldn’t just _not_ be there. Did that mean he’d gone forward? If so, how far forward? Had the inquisition failed? And if not forward, then how far back? Exactly how much time would have needed to pass to explain _this_?

Dorian’s jaw clenched as the woman cried, pleading and begging for what he could only guess was her life. Unlike the previous interrogatee, this one seemed to be talking—which was great as far as Dorian was concerned. It even bought him enough time to finally disable the first of several enchantments problematic to his goal of getting as far away from these elves and Avvar as possible. The energy changes caused by the enchantment alteration resulted in a larger magical signature than he’d have liked, but overcoming the anti-magic effect itself while under its influence was rather difficult—even with his abundance of natural talent. It had been a very close call, but he had succeeded in staving off the enchantment long enough to alter an underlying alarm rune into only activating in response to the bracers being put _on_ instead of taken off.

From there he delved deeper into the magic underlying the bracers and collar, and he did so while making a concentrated effort to pretend he was not currently an unwilling witness to the torture and murder happening such a short distance away. He had only begun to truly unravel the underlying structure of the next enchantment’s spell-work when the eventual screams of the Avvar woman turned into a pained whimper followed by silence.

Beads of sweat formed along Dorian’s brow as he continued to work, and it was hard to tell whether it was a result of the intense heat produced by the maleficar’s weapon a mere 15 feet away or from his continued effort to free himself. Between maintaining his concentration and trying to keep an eye on all the elves, Dorian completely missed what happened to the third person—another woman. He’d hardy registered the situation when the abomination decided to kill her, too.

Dorian had nearly managed to decrease the sensitivity of his bracers to tampering, which would allow him to dedicate less of his energy to temporarily suspending one of the more intricately woven enchantments that he could not yet target directly, when he realized his ability to maintain firm control of the energy’s movement around him was failing. Dorian relaxed his use of mana slowly, trying to allow the faint aura he’d generated to fade as subtly as it had grown. Midway through the process, however, the elf nearest him paused from tending to one of the halla-creatures and eyed Dorian for several seconds. For one terrifying moment Dorian believed for certain that he’d been caught. The strain of maintaining the ambient magic around him so as not to suggest he’d been doing anything to cause its fluctuation was almost too much. 

Then the moment broke and the elf’s attention snapped to the center of the clearing. Dorian had been momentarily saved from discovery by a sudden outburst of several Avvar breaking into angry shouts. The distraction had come not a moment too soon. His vision swam as he broke concentration—a sensation that was becoming far too familiar for Dorian’s taste—and spots of white hovered in his vision like wisps.

Blinking several times to no avail, Dorian joined the other elves in observing the evolving Avvar-Elf spectacle. Judging from the furious glares leveled at the demon’s 4th victim by his companions, the man must have given the elves whatever it was they were after.

The abomination turned from the Avvar that had confessed and approached a younger woman at the edge of the group, and the halberd glowed briefly in his hands before dematerializing. In its place the abomination now held what looked like a small, clear ball of glass about the size of a large marble.

Whatever the small orb was, it clearly had significance. The natural flux of magic in the air shifted and grew suddenly taught. The corpse-looking woman in charge of the group said something to the elf with dark markings, who nodded before grabbing the Avvar by the hair and pulling him roughly to his feet.

Dorian felt the sudden twist of energy as reality once again twisted in on itself as another object was willed into existence and the clearing dimmed. The elf with black hair raised his free hand as grew darker and the increasing absence of light spread. Where the other demon had been something more familiar—anger, heat and fire—this one radiated _nothing_. It wasn’t that the elf’s eyes had gone dark, but rather that the space where they had once been _had been consumed by the absence of existing_.

But even spirits and demons had substance! Chantry teachings about the abyss and the void spoke as much about metaphor as it attempted to explain—and as insubstantial as the Fade could be it still had a physical component! _Yes, but without a veil—._ As the dimming effect spread closer towards him, Dorian was increasingly filled with the overwhelming urge to run. However, Dorian was a Pavus. Fleeing like a common druffalo at the first sign of magic was beneath him.

That, and this was an excellent learning opportunity.

It was. Surely.

Yes, of course it was. Dorian was a man of intellect with an exceptional understanding of intra-veil planar mechanics and a theoretical expertise in time travel that had, quite unfortunately, been proven possible by an ex-mentor and apparent madman, and he was fairly certain that the ambient effects of this _other_ abomination’s energy were no more a threat to him than that of the rage demon’s. Furthermore, if Dorian’s conclusion that this particular demon drew power from the void—.

When the consuming nothingness receded and the clearing became distinctly less empty of, well, _everything_ , Dorian breathed a sigh of relief. He was perfectly happy to ponder the possibility of having his person casually fazed into an alternate, but overlaying, plane of non-existence at a later point.

Like the rage abomination this… darkness abomination—truthfully Dorian wasn’t sure what it was—had conjured a weapon. A dagger. Dorian frowned, then slowly got to his feet.

He’d seen enough slender hilted, smooth silver daggers in the Imperium to recognize a sacrificial dagger when he saw one. Licking his lips Dorian surveyed the other elves, which were likely _also_ possessed, only to discover the blond elf eyeing him suspiciously, and Dorian’s heart sank. Perhaps his tampering hadn’t escaped detection after all.

Dorian gave the elf his best winning smile, which was not returned, followed by a twirl of his moustache. Dorian had simply had enough of sitting and had wanted to stretch his legs. He was perfectly content as a captive of half a dozen possessed maleficarum.

The demon of darkness drew his—its—blade across the Avvar man’s throat and there was a thumb of energy. The blood spilled out into the air, coalescing into ribbons circled the glass sphere as the rage abomination began to the spell’s incantation.

The young Avvar woman’s eyes went wide and she started to protest, but the words were cut short by a terrible scream as the blood began to burn away and its magic was consumed. Dorian watched in silent horror as her eyes and mouth began to glow and her essence was ripped violently from her body. The magic in the air thrashed, and the lifeless woman’s screams echoed in the surrounding air as the spirit she had been hiding was pulled by the unyielding current of blood magic into the tiny glass orb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Et in tenebris tot perpetui, non sum solus."_ \- "And in the dark unbroken, I am not alone." 
> 
> \--------------
> 
> Don't worry, things totally improve in the next chapter. Alexisus' amulet totally doesn't get eaten in an extremely creepy and potentially sentient evil forest ruled by a greater demon of darkness. That would be ridiculous. 
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome, particularly with respect making things seem eerie or spooky. I have no fucking clue how to be spooky. I'm the dumbass that laughs during horror movies. Also Dorian's voice. My grasp of his character is not great.


	3. Pride & Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night is dark and there's a pissed off Terror. 
> 
> Dorian's adventure in a world before a veil continues, and it isn't going well. 
> 
> Word Count: 3156

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoy. Brief address about future direction of this story in the end note regarding the still technically undecided romance paring for Dorian. 
> 
> If you see errors, please let me know. I've read through it and tried to catch them, but things always slip through. :)
> 
> Edit: It's occurred to me that that I might wanna explain my choice to translate Fen'Harel to Defiant Wolf/Wolf of Defiance over Rebel/Dread Wolf. Defiance is the spirit of Rebellian, like in dictionaries, and I just liked it too damn much... but I also feel like it reads a little awk. I considered just having him go by "Defiance" but that wasn't right either. If it just feels too clunky/weird please let me know. I went back and forth between how to write out the translations of the Evanuris names.

Once the spirit had been captured, the spell collapsed and its leftover energy was released in a ripple of power that sent a chill up Dorian’s spine. The woman who had been harboring the spirit crumpled to the ground, her body no longer suspended in place by the blood magic’s power. She laid there motionless, save for the steady rise and fall of her chest, as her eyes stared blankly ahead, unseeing. And Dorian found himself hoping that the only reason she drew breath was because her body had not yet realized it was dead. What had just transpired was not something a person survived.

Dorian watched with growing unease the Rage-bound mage held the orb out to their leader, her corpse-like lips twisting into a smile that revealed long, thin, razor-sharp teeth. She took the glass from his hand, closing her fist around it with a flare of magic as the sphere vanished.

With their apparent objective completed, the elves quickly gathered up the surviving Avvar. None of them attempted to struggle or flee as a heavy looking chain was affixed to their negation collars. The group simply stood by the sturdy halla they’d been leashed to, huddled together in shared resignation. When he was forced to join them, linked by same heavy chain that caused his collar to dig uncomfortably into his neck, he kept as much distance as the slack of the chain allowed. Unfortunately, the pungent stench of sweat, burnt flesh, and ash was impossible to escape. 

He regarded his new companions warily, and they eyed him in return with furtive glances spared between downcast eyes. They were defeated, and Dorian decided quickly that giving them further attention would be a waste of time.

Soon the group of possessed elves were ready to leave, and Dorian followed with reluctant footsteps. As he left the clearing behind, Dorian looked one last time over his shoulder to the woman. She was still breathing, and he was beginning to fear that his initial assessment had been wrong and that the woman had suffered a fate far worse than death.

All of the elves rode ahead of their human captives, save for the one with blond hair who had been tending to the mounts. He had taken to riding several paces behind the group, and Dorian could feel the Elf’s eyes on his back. Considering it was the same Elf who may have noticed Dorian’s earlier attempts to subvert his bracers’ enchantments, Dorian didn’t dare attempt to tamper with the devices any further while he was present.

Dorian’s chances for a successful escape were dwindling further by the second.

For the time being, he would have to resign himself studying his surroundings and captors. The two elves at the front of the train were the same pair that had questioned and tortured the Avvar, which came as a surprise to Dorian considering it was the frost queen who was clearly in command—at least he’d thought she was. Instead, she walked a short distance behind them in the same manner the blond elf was trailing behind Dorian. Behind the corpse-like woman was a man whose hair was a translucent white, and his tattoos reminded Dorian of a pale abalone shell. The last elf in the group, the one whose halla Dorian and the Avvar were chained to, had an appearance similar, but not identical, to the corpse-woman. The end effect was that he just looked reminiscent of a corpse instead of a blighted corpse.

They headed steadily deeper into the forest, with trees and brush dense enough to require the elves to weave between the trees. Only they were walking in a straight line—and so, by extension, was he. The forest itself was moving around them. Every root, branch, leaf, and rock parted to allow them passage only to return once more to their proper place once they’d passed. It was becoming increasingly clear that the effects of magic on a world without a veil were more pervasive than he could have ever imagined. He had no context for what was possible and what wasn’t—here the magic was so different it bordered on something entirely unknown.

Overhead the canopy of the forest started to thicken, and in time dark branches instead of leaves twisted overhead until the light of day was replaced with a blanket of darkness. Wisps and beings even less defined flitted between the trees, the lush forest floor growing harder as it turned black. And Dorian couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the light or not, but at times he could have sworn he saw the tree branches bend and shift in unnatural ways. The land itself—the forest—seemed alive.

That was when he noticed it: a shadow slinking between the trees out of place with those cast by mount and rider. Initially he’d believed it to be the shifting of the branches, which creaked and curled as the surrounding air shifted like a collective breath. But then Dorian saw it again, and again. It was a darkness out of place from the other shadows that slithered and skittered over the roots of the watching trees.

Dorian swallowed and spared a glance at the others to see if anyone else had noticed. For all he knew it was simply further illusion. It could be nothing of consequence whatsoever, but somehow Dorian didn’t think so. It was hard to pinpoint, and downright bizarre given the context of his current predicament, but there was something about the shadow that felt… familiar.

Over the next half hour the shadow continued to move alongside the group, inching steadily closer at times only to suddenly withdraw and reappear elsewhere a moment later. If the shadow had taken notice of having Dorian as an audience, it did nothing to indicate as much.

He had nearly decided to ignore it, whatever it was, when it moved behind him. Dorian glanced over his shoulder to follow it, because it didn’t seem like something to leave your back open to, only to find an unnatural, empty darkness. And _only_ darkness. He looked further up the train for the elf with the blond hair, in case he had somehow failed to notice him move back up with the others, but he wasn’t there, either. The mount and rider had gone.

Swallowing, he began to frantically work on bypassing the remaining enchantments on his bracers. Perhaps this was all some kind of trick, and getting caught would almost certainly spell his doom, but it might be his only chance.

Then Dorian heard, more than felt, a sigh of air as the shadow that had been following alongside them darted forward. This time the others noticed something was amiss. The leader shouted something as the forest suddenly closed in front of her, cutting her off from the two elves who had been riding up front so abruptly that her halla was forced to turn sharply and side step. _Fasta vass!_ The corpse woman said something to the remaining two elves, her pale blue eyes narrowing into a glare as the air went silent.

The shadow exited the trees in front of the Elves, growing and condensing into a black mass several times larger than any man or halla as the forest contorted to try and create a large enough space for it. The tree branches that had once stretched overhead in a canopy creaked and snapped in an effort to accommodate the being as it solidified. And luminescent red eyes the size of Dorian’s head opened as the beast exhaled, its great maw displaying several long, pointed teeth.

The creature had to be at least twenty feet tall—possibly even thirty. Its thick black fur whirled and twisted in an endless dance, irrespective of whether the body beneath it was moving. And while its form was clearly solid, it wasn’t solid in a way Dorian had ever seen outside the Fade and his dreams—as seemed to be the case with so much in this new and strange place. It was as real as it was impossible, its existence a contradiction between what clearly _was_ and what could be. And it would have all been extremely fascinating, too, were it not for the fact that Dorian had been in a constant state of mortal peril since his arrival.

“Defiant Wolf,” the Elven leader said stiffly, pausing before she gave the slightest incline of her head, “to what do we owe this great honor?”

Dorian faltered in his efforts to break the enchantments, his attention snapping to the conversation in shock when he understood them.

“Terror,” the demon replied, and the word resonated in the air instead of being spoken. If the beast was bothered by clearly being unwelcome, it did not show it. If anything, it sounded as if it were smiling. “I simply wish to ensure that there is no misstep. You have retrieved what was wrongfully taken from Friend of Death—a task made possibly only by Darkness permitting your passage and his lending of aid.” The wolf demon paused, its tongue lolling from its open mouth. “And yet you continue to pass through this Land by his Mercy with no offer of thanks.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed. The words spoken and unspoken alike were still alien to his ears, but they came with a clarity of meaning. The magic involved must have been an area affect, although Dorian could only guess at why such consideration had been extended to himself and, judging by the way they were watching the exchange, the Avaar.

“Yet you have stolen away those entrusted to us in Friend of Death’s name by Darkness.” Terror, apparently, said in reply. “What will you offer Friend of Death in return for taking that which was given to him, Defiant Wolf?”

Defiant Wolf tilted his head to the side in what was unmistakably a smile. “Only for the purpose given, which they have served. Darkness will not mind. Or would you have me speak of such disrespect by Friend of Death’s subjects so openly? Whatever slight I may have made to Friend of Death in the process is paid for by virtue of doing so in order to prevent your failure to make the appropriate offerings of thanks on Friend of Death’s behalf.”

“And the reason I was not told of this expectation sooner?”

“You did not ask.” Defiant Wolf said simply, and terror glared at him. “The three huddled quick children should be enough to satisfy Darkness.”

“They are Friend of Death’s by right of their crimes. Their lives are to him owed.” Terror argued back.

“The vessel of the guilty is destroyed in the process of the object’s retrieval. Friend of Death’s claim has, therefore, been exacted.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, glancing at the Avvar.

“Done. Very well.” Terror ground out coolly. “Friend of Death thanks you for your assistance.”

“Indeed,” Defiant Wolf said. “And what offering will you give me in thanks? After all, it is I who brokered this agreement. Without my aid Friend of Death would have never been able to retrieve what was his with such expediency.”

“Friend of Death will not appreciate your arrogance.” Terror tried.

“A matter for him and I, then.” Defiant Wolf said, lightly. “Not you.” Dorian was finding it difficult to reconcile the massive demon’s glibness with its appearance. Defiant Wolf paused, then added with a dangerous sweetness that implied its words were a warning. “Or do you have nothing worthwhile to offer me?” The wolf’s tail flicked.

“The Great Wolf thinks we would slight our Lord,” Terror hissed, gesturing to the elf with colorless braids that had been woven into an elaborate mohawk. “Bring shame to his name. Let us show him, then, the error of his ways.”

Two of Defiant Wolf’s eyes shifted to the elf on Terror’s right, its brow rising. “Contemplation,” it said in mild surprise, “it is good to know Friend of Death can still see value in such things. Perhaps he is not so great a fool after all.”

Under the blanket of red light cast by the wolf demon’s eyes, Dorian could see enough to make out Contemplation’s frown as he slowly turned from Terror to Defiant Wolf. “And yet you seem quite pleased with yourself, Defiant Wolf,” Contemplation said softly enough that Dorian wouldn’t have realized he’d spoken at all if it weren’t for the magic providing translations.

Defiant Wolf’s smile grew. “I simply question whether you are here as a product of wisdom I had believed long lost, or because the great and mighty Friend of Death believes you… disposable.”

“You overstep,” Terror warned, her halla shifting restlessly under her. “Do not take us for fools, Wolf.”

The eyes still watching Terror blinked before all but one settled on the elf named Contemplation. “the All-Mother would welcome you.”

“Perhaps it is you who should be more cautious with your words.” Contemplation responded softly, reaching into his robes.

“Think on it, will you?” Defiant Wolf said.

Contemplation and Defiant Wolf eyed one another for several seconds, but the Elf did not comment further—choosing instead to withdraw an emerald amulet on golden chain.

Dorian stilled, his eyes widening. How could he have forgotten!? He’d had it gripped in his hand! Dorian was many things, but he had never been forgetful. In fact, he had an excellent memory.

Defiant Wolf lowered its head to the Elves’ level, turning his head slightly to the side as if to see the item better. “Well now, this _is_ … what a curious thing. Tell me, where did you find this?” Its eyes looked past the necklace to Contemplation.

Contemplation did not respond immediately, and instead of answering the question he said, “If given in payment and not as a gift its past matters little, does it not? Or would you ask what we know of it as a favor to be paid in return to our Lord?”

Defiant Wolf’s eyes shifted subtly, and for a brief moment Dorian feared it was looking at him. “No,” it said after a moment, “that is not necessary. I will accept this offering as payment.”

“Then you know what it is?” Terror pressed.

The demon ignored her. Its tongue swept forward then, steam or smoke—Dorian was no longer sure if there was a difference—rising from it as it curled around the emerald stone Dorian _needed_ to get out of this place. Contemplation let go of the chain as the item vanished from sight, and Dorian watched with widening eyes as the demon _swallowed_ his only means of returning to his time.

Dorian made a strangled noise and this time the demon _did_ look at him. Its eyes, for one horrible fraction of a second, smiling. Defiant Wolf straightened, running its tongue over its teeth as if having just consumed something particularly tasty, and Dorian could only stare in silent horror.

It was one thing to try and plan an escape from a group of possessed Elves. It was quite another to face the prospect escaping into and then out of a domain commanded by a very powerful Darkness demon. And it was yet even another thing to miraculously escape both the group of abominations and a powerful demon’s domain while also retrieving a much needed and very powerful magical object from the _stomach_ of an occasionally incorporeal and clearly quite powerful wolf demon.

In this world without the Veil, Dorian was quickly coming to realize that he may as well have been within a physical Fade. Fasta vass, _was_ he in the physical Fade? By some impossible circumstance had the combination of the Breach and his disruption of Alexius’s mad attempt to erase the Herald from existence somehow resulted in Dorian achieving the impossible and stepping beyond the Veil itself? But if that were the case, then surely he would still be able to sense or recognize the presence of some kind of divide or barrier between the physical Fade and the waking world.

“You have received your due, Defiant Wolf. The debt to you owed by Friend of Death has been repaid, and offerings of thanks to Darkness for safe passage have been given.” Terror said curtly. “On Friend of Death’s behalf, we _thank_ you for, and are humbled _by_ , your wisdom.” As she spoke, Defiant Wolf turned to regard her, and Terror made little show of desiring anything but for the greater demon before them to leave. “By your leave, and Darkness’s favor, we have already been delayed long enough and it _would not be wise_ to keep our master waiting.”

Despite Dorian being under the impression that Terror was somehow mocking Defiant Wolf, the demon chuckled. “No, I suppose it would not… However, it is only by the All-Mother’s insistence that I agreed to speak with Darkness on Friend of Death’s behalf. As such, it would be quite rude not to offer her something from your journey as well.”

Dorian didn’t have to see Terror’s face to know she was furiously grinding her teeth. “Friend of Death will surely—.”

“Friend of Death did not cross Darkness’s lands, sparing himself the need,” Defiant Wolf interrupted, some irritation beginning to slip into his tone. “the agreement was not for his passage, but _yours_ —an excuse for further war, no doubt.” He was now regarding Terror coolly. “Or perhaps the idea was yours, Terror? As lacking as those in Friend of Death’s service so often are in manners, even I find it difficult to believe one with as much station as yourself could be so ignorant.”

Terror had gone still, her back rigid at the growl now entering the demon’s voice as it glared down at her. “So tell me Terror, which is it? There are only so many options.”

Dorian didn’t know who any of these other people—or rather demons—were, but he knew enough about politics to know that, one way or another, Terror was getting played. Hard. He’d seen magisters do it to young apprentices who were either too proud or too stupid to know better. In this case, Dorian was inclined to some combination of both.

Terror didn’t respond immediately, her ghostly complexion sharp in contrast to the greater demon’s black fur and red glow. “Forgive me, my Lord. I did not intend disrespect.” Terror said slowly, bowing her head. “In my ignorance I see I have failed the gods on several levels, and upon my return I shall seek Friend of Death’s forgiveness for my failures.”

“See that you do.” Defiant Wolf said coolly. “The other quick child should do. The All-Mother is Merciful, after all.”

It took Dorian a moment to realize the demon was referring to him.

Terror kept her head bowed. “Of course. It is my honor.” She ground out.

“Yes,” Defiant Wolf said, its tone still full of warning, “it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So currently this fic is tagged as a romance between Dorian/TBD for romance. Atm I've pretty much decided on Dorian/Solas, but I want to at least give readers enjoying this story a chance to have their say or make their case if they'd really like to see a different pairing. Just know it's probs gonna be Dorian/Solas.
> 
> If you dislike this (or like this) cast your vote in the comments below. <3


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